timidly. She didn’t know whether Father Cassidy would like being called a minister.
“Kind av,” he agreed amiably. “And you see ministers and priests can’t do their own swearing. They have to keep cats to do it for them. I never knew any cat that could sware as genteelly and effectively as the B’y.”
“Is that what you call him?” asked Emily, looking at the black cat in some awe. It seemed hardly safe to discuss him right before his face.
“That’s what he calls himself. My mother doesn’t like him because he steals the cream. Now, I don’t mind his doing that; no, it’s his way av licking his jaws after it that I can’t stand. Oh, B’y, we’ve a fairy calling on us. Be excited for once, I implore you—there’s a duck av a cat.”
The B’y refused to be excited. He winked an insolent eye at Emily.
“Have you any idea what goes on in the head av a cat, elf?”
What queer questions Father Cassidy asked. Yet Emily thought she would like his questions if she were not so worried. Suddenly Father Cassidy leaned across the table and said,
“Now, just what’s bothering you?”
“I’m so unhappy,” said Emily piteously.
“So are lots av other people. Everybody is unhappy by spells. But creatures who have pointed ears shouldn’t be unhappy. It’s only mortals who should be that.”
“Oh, please—please—” Emily wondered what she should call him. Would it offend him if a Protestant called him “Father”? But she had to risk it—“please, Father Cassidy, I’m in such trouble and I’ve come to ask a great favour of you.”
Emily told him the whole tale from beginning to end—the old Murray-Sullivan feud, her erstwhile friendship
